Glitch
by UmbriFiica
Summary: Glitch gets his brain back, but is it really for the best?


Eyes open, blurred shapes and colors slowly gaining definition. Nothing is familiar, until the girl steps into view. Dark wavy hair and bright blue eyes filled with concern.

_an uneasy state of blended interest, uncertainty, and apprehension. a marked interest or regard usually arising through a personal tie or relationship_

A hand on his brow stops the words flowing through his mind, and he hears the angel

_a being superior to humans in power, intelligence, and beauty; harbinger, an attendant spirit or guardian_

speak.

"How do you feel?" Her voice is not quite what he expected – shouldn't he expect it though, doesn't he know her? – but it suits her. His vision continues to sharpen

_visual acuity is dependent on the sharpness of the retinal focus within the eye and the sensitivity of the interpretative faculty of the . . . _

and he realizes that her beauty is more earthly than that of heaven. He thinks he is glad for this; angels might scare him.

_the more beautiful a woman is, the easier it is to be hurt by her_

"Do I know you?" He knows he should, but everything is uncertain, as if he is dreaming.

_oneirology is the scientific study of dreams, the envisioned images, sounds, or other sensations experienced during sleep_

"Oh, Glitch." Her eyes are shining, is she crying?

_lacrimation may be caused by strong emotions, such as sorrow or elation_

"It's me. DG."

"DG?"

_the fourth and seventh letters in the basic alphabet. set together could possibly be an abbreviation for a disliked or unwieldy name_

"DG." Something in him is stirring, something warm and light in his chest,

_location of the heart, the organ most commonly associated with sentiment_

but dark and foreboding in his head.

_location of the . . . of the . . . the organ responsible for . . ._

He doesn't notice the trembling in his hands, as though his body is preparing for something horrible.

"Glitch. My name is . . . no. Glitch is a nickname."

_different in origin and pronunciation from the original name; usually descriptive, a familiar form of a proper name_

"My name . . . my name is Ambrose."

As soon as he says it, it is as though a set of floodgates had been opened. Names, sounds, colors, smells, _memories_ come rushing into consciousness. For a moment, he freezes, eyes wide open and every muscle tensed, but there is too much. A lifetime of knowledge_, awareness, experience, synapses reconnecting, neurons firing_, all of it an overload he cannot handle in silence. His hands fly to his head and he screams in pain. There is too much information, returning far too fast. There are hands on him that are not his own, trying to comfort_, _restrain_, calm_, and he shoves them off, unable to recognize that they belong to his friends. Dear friends that he loves, that love him, that only want to help him. They try again, and again he rebuffs them, hitting and kicking when they will not leave him alone. Tin Man pulls DG away, fully aware of what the thrashing man is capable of and that he does not need to be in control of his mind to be dangerous. Ambrose's muscle memory had not deteriorated during the time that his brain had been separate from his body.

Ambrose is unaware of any of this, knowing only the pain coursing through his body as his reconnected brain attempts to process all the stimuli coming its way. Overwhelmed, he rolls off of the bed and staggers to the door in a sort of stumbling run. Throwing the door open, he takes off up the stairs, winding through the corridors, letting his feet lead him. He is silent now, concentrating only on running. They lose sight of him in minutes.

It is hours before they find him, curled up in the corner of a window seat in a long-unused set of rooms. There is a book in his hands and he is staring out the window at the landscape below. He does not respond when either princess calls his name, does not even turn to acknowledge the Queen when she sits next to him. He simply clutches the book tighter to him, as though they would take it from his hands. The Queen and her advisor sit in silence for what seems like hours. Perhaps it is. His voice, when it comes, is so quiet that she almost misses it.

"Talesia is dead, isn't she." The words are not a question. The Queen bows her head for a moment, then lays her hand gently on his arm, her lavender eyes searching for his.

"I am so sorry, Ambrose." Her voice is soft, and the feeling in it brings tears to his eyes. He lets them fall. He cries in silence, except for a few muffled sobs that escape the pillow he has pressed his face into.

"I do not want these memories," he chokes out through his tears, voice hoarse from the strain it has gone through. The Queen says nothing, for she knows that there is nothing she can do to make this right. She does what she can to soothe her most trusted friend, running her hand through his hair and over his back, but she uses no magic. She could block the memories that are causing him pain from his mind forever but she will not. It would make him less of a person, and he would surely come to regret it.

He knows that she will not take the memories he so desperately wants to be rid of, and though a small, hidden part of him is grateful, resentment is the strongest emotion in his heart. He cannot help but wish that his friends had not put his brain back into his head. It would have been better for Cain to shoot it when he had the chance. His thoughts are reflected in his bleak eyes, and the Queen can feel his despair. She shakes him lightly.

"We still need you here." He does not want to listen, but she is his queen and friend, and so he nods to show he understands. "Besides," the Queen says, "DG would never forgive you if you left us." A slight smile appears on his face in spite of himself when he thinks of the young princess.

"She doesn't need to worry. I'm not going anywhere." He looks back out the window, then down to the book in his hands. "I would like to be alone for a bit, if I may." The Queen smiles and rises gracefully.

"Take all the time you need." He waits until she has gone from the room to open the book and read the message inside the front cover.

Talesia – I know how fond you are of empty books.

I hope this one serves you well. Love, Ambrose

He closes the book before the tears that are once again forming in his eyes can spill over onto the filled pages. Hugging his wife's journal close to his chest, he looks out over the O.Z. and tries not to remember.


End file.
